


It All Starts With Valdo Marx

by neverafuckgiven



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Smut, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, like just an inch of smut, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22660816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverafuckgiven/pseuds/neverafuckgiven
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier have an encounter with Jaskier's mortal enemy, the troubadour of Cintra, aka Valdo Marx. How it leads to a soft and romantic evening in front of a fire is anybody's guess really.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 540





	It All Starts With Valdo Marx

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbetaed. I tried to look it over, but I, alas, am human.

Geralt and Jaskier run into Jaskier’s mortal enemy on a dreary and rainy afternoon in fall in a small town near Vizima. They arrive to town, bringing what feels like a monsoon with them. Geralt sends Jaskier ahead to get them a room at the tavern while he secures Roach in the stable. The cold doesn’t seem to bother Roach just like it doesn’t bother Geralt; they’ve both travelled through worse.

Jaskier, however, had been soaked through and trembling, his flashy outfit offering him little protection from the weather. It’s the main reason they’ve stopped actually, though Geralt will never admit it. Jaskier had been cold and miserable and so tired he had actually stopped complaining. It was the silence that had done Geralt in. So when Geralt strides up to the tavern door, only to see Jaskier pouting outside of it, he’s a bit confused.

“You know, we could probably make the next town if we try hard enough! No point in stopping now!” Jaskier’s hair is sticking to his forehead, his arms folded across his chest like he’s trying to keep warm. He’d wrapped his cloak over his lute to keep it dry, the damn fool, has the thing thrown over his shoulder.

Geralt raises an eyebrow and then cocks his head. There’s music inside. It must be another bard. The thought makes him scowl and he’s tempted to get back on Roach and go. But Jaskier is shaking rather badly. “Come on.” He puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and steers him inside.

When they enter, Geralt rolls his eyes. The tavern’s got a small crowd, not large enough for them to go in unnoticed unfortunately. The music keeps going though a good portion of the villagers step back in fear. Good. He guides Jaskier to a table and sits him down before sitting across from him, taking his hood down. Jaskier is glaring at the table, clearly pouting, as he takes his lute off and props it up against the table.

“Hmm.” Geralt catches eyes with the barmaid and she nods, looking skeptical.

“That is the troubadour of CIntra.” Jaskier huffs, rubbing his hands together to try and get the feeling back in them. “Valdo Marx. He’s an ass.”

The barmaid brings by two tankards and sets them down. “Will ye be wanting food as well? We’ve got some rabbit just caught.”

“A bath too?” Jaskier perks up, eyes flicking between Geralt and the barmaid.

“Didn’t you just have a bath?”

“One can never have too many!” Jaskier sighs though. “But no. I guess it’s not necessary.”

Geralt eyes him and his trembling hands and hands the barmaid an extra coin, waves her closer so he can murmur. “A room with a fire. If you have it.”

She takes the coin with a smile. “It’ll take some time, but I’ll have it settled for ye.”

“I despise that man.” Jaskier is still scowling, his lip curled in distaste, as he follows Marx’s movement over Geralt’s shoulder. “He’s a pompous ass. I wish he’d get eaten by one of your monsters. I won’t be making any coin during our stay. I doubt our hosts will want two bards performing. Even if one sounds like a dying hound.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. Jaskier can be a bit spiteful, but this is to a level he’s never witnessed before. The bard’s hands are still shaking and so Geralt grabs a candle from the next table, lighting it with Igni. It’s not much, but it seems to improve Jaskier’s mood. He holds his hands over it and gives Geralt a dazzling smile that ties his stomach into knots. It’s just a damn candle. It’s a soft moment, though, that he appreciates. He doesn’t get many of those. Or, at least, he didn’t before Jaskier.

However, Geralt’s magic attracts attention. It always does.

“You’re a witcher, aren’t you?” A man steps up to their table, stumbling a bit and smelling like weak ale. “With your damn magic? Did your mother fuck one of your monsters to get you?”

“Say that again!” Jaskier stands, more outraged than Geralt is; it’s always a surprise. The witcher’s gotten used to this kind of thing, but even though Jaskier’s heard it for the past three years, he always reacts poorly. “I’ll have your tongue for it!”

“You think I’m scared of a prissy bard?” The man steps nose to nose with Jaskier and raises his hand, clearly not expecting Geralt to stop it; he catches the drunkard by his wrist and yanks him down to look him in the eye.

“Fuck off.” He’s half tempted to use Axii to make the man walk out into the rain and go home just so he doesn’t have to look at him, but the man looks scared enough to piss himself already; Geralt lets go and the man falls heavy against the floor.

The man scurries back to his table and Jaskier sits back down just as their food arrives. All of the tension bleeds out of him and he digs in, waving his fork at the man. “I don’t know how you deal with that shit. Ridiculous.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, but that doesn’t stop Jaskier from talking. It’s a good sign; his color is coming back and the light from the candle is hitting his cheeks, giving him a healthy glow. It’s transfixing and Geralt keeps eating, lets the rambling wash over him, as he drinks it in. It almost feels like meditation in a way. He had thought the constant noise would distract him and it did at first, but now it’s a pleasant background noise when he’s sharpening his blade or travelling on some back road.

“Oh great, he’s coming over. Geralt, do your scary face.” Jaskier whispers from behind his tankard and a figure comes to loom over their table.

“Julian! Good to see you!” It’s the other bard, a short man with dark, black hair, no older than twenty-five.

“You know I hate being called that, Marx.” Jaskier offers a tight smile and glances at Geralt quickly. “I haven’t see you since Oxenfurt.”

“I’ve been busy since then! I’m in high demand these days! I almost have too much coin to walk with!” Marx laughs and pulls a chair up to sit at their table, which makes both Jaskier and Geralt scowl. “I’ve heard some of your songs. Not as popular as mine, but I’ve heard them once or twice.” He waves at the barmaid and points to Jaskier’s tankard. “You haven’t changed much.” He looks Jaskier over slowly. “Neither your music nor your clothes.” She comes by with a tankard for him and smacks away his wandering hands.

“Why improve on perfection?” Jaskier looks ready to tackle Marx to the ground, trembling not with cold now but rage.

“Keep telling yourself that.” Marx finally seems to notice Geralt, turning towards him, and ignoring Jaskier now. “You must be the witcher! I had heard Julian was travelling with the likes of you, but hearing it and seeing it are two very different animals.” He picks a bit of meat off Jaskier’s plate. “I didn’t realize the boy had it in him. A bit of a coward if you ask me. Never was much of a fighter. Or a musician. Or a man. But then again, neither of you are really men, are you? At least he’s still human.”

Jaskier stands abruptly, his chair falling back; his hands are clenched into fists and his face is bright red with fury. He looks feral, his lip curled into a sneer. “Take that back.” The tavern goes quiet. “You don’t know anything about being human, much less a man, you cur. Take. It. Back.”

Marx stands, his chair scooting back as well. “I didn’t think you could fight your own battles. I was half expecting your witcher to do it for you.”

“Enough.” Both men look down at Geralt. “Jaskier, go put our things away.”

“But-“

“Now.” Jaskier huffs and storms off, grabbing his pack and storming off upstairs, cursing under his breath the whole way.

“Like a naughty child.” Marx snorts and sits back down, still pecking at Jaskier’s abandoned plate. “He practically is a child, playing at being a bard.” He points, talking with his mouth half full. “Now, witcher, you may not be a man, but I have heard the songs. You have grand adventures and I wager he’s more hindrance than help. I’m the right man to be singing about those monsters you slay, not Julian. We could split the profits.”

Geralt takes a bite, chews and swallows, takes his time composing the right answer to such a proposal. “I like the bard I have.” He pointedly pulls Jaskier’s plate out of Marx’s reach. “So fuck off.”

Marx leans back, clearly offended before turning smug. “Ah, I get it now. Julian’s always been better at handling cock than a lute-“

Geralt hauls the man up by his shirt, has the man on the tips of his toes as he struggles in Geralt’s grip. He hears a couple more chairs screech as people move back, a few gasps. “He has more talent in an eyelash than you will ever have in your short, miserable life.” He shakes Marx a bit because it makes the man whimper and it’s shameful, but he enjoys it. “He’s a better man and a better bard and I’d choose him over any other songbird in the world.” He drops Marx to the floor where the man falls on his ass and scuttles back. “And his name is Jaskier, you halfwit.”

The man flees from the tavern and Geralt watches him go with cruel satisfaction, half tempted to cast Aard and hurry the man along. Marx had been pressing on every one of his nerves and it feels just to have the man scurrying away into the cold after the man’s treatment of Jaskier. He turns back and freezes.

Speak of the devil. Jaskier is standing there, staring at him with wide eyes. “I, uh, forgot my lute.” He’s holding the offending instrument and Geralt, for all his talk of not having emotions, very much wants the floor to swallow him. No one else has to know that though.

Geralt straightens his shoulders, grabs his pack and Jaskier’s plate, and heads for the stairs to make his way to their room. Jaskier, after a moment’s hesitation, follows him in silence.

Once inside, Geralt sets his stuff down on the bed nearest to the door, the plate on the bedside table, and starts pulling at his armor, the clothes still damp from the rain. Jaskier is hovering in his periphery, very clearly aching to say something, but he’s showing restraint for once in his life.

Once his armor and clothes are a pile on the floor, Geralt pulls on a dry pair of pants and starts hanging his wet clothes in front of the raging fireplace. Jaskier is leaning against the wall next to him, playing with the buttons of his doublet.

“Out with it.” Geralt sighs, shaking his jerkin out.

“Are we not going to talk about it?” Jaskier looks up and something in his face seems wrong. His smile and his eyes don’t match. “You sent Valdo Marx running into the night after shaming him in front of a tavern full of people?”

“It was not a tavern full-“

“Semantics.” Jaskier waves the comment off and starts pacing as he gestures with his hands, picking up a bit of food and popping it into his mouth. “It was a very talented performance; the tavern owners will no doubt want the ‘better bard’ to draw in-“

Geralt frowns and catches Jaskier’s arm, making him stop. “Performance?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows crinkle in confusion. “Yes? I know you didn’t actually mean any of that. I’m not as much of a fool as you think I am.” He moves to pull his arm away, but Geralt’s grip is unyielding. “I would like my arm back please. I’m very attached to it.”

“I meant every word of it.” He, suddenly and very desperately, needs Jaskier to know that.

“Geralt, please. This is no time for jokes.” Jaskier smiles and finally looks Geralt in the eye. The smile is gone in an instant. “You’re not joking.” He steps closer, his arm still caught in the witcher’s grasp. “You!” Jaskier’s face turns bright pink. “You meant it.”

“When have you ever known me to say what I don’t mean?” Geralt lets him go and takes a seat on the floor next to the fire, enjoying Jaskier’s floundering, the bard back to pacing, throwing his hands up.

“I have no words. You have never, not once, even hinted at liking my music! And then you gallantly defend my honor like you’re a knight-“

“What happened to having no words?”

“Should I have given you my favor beforehand? Do you need one of my handkerchiefs to tuck into your armor?”

“I can take it all back if it will make you shut up.”

“You can’t act like you despise me now. You’ve shown your hand-“

“You talk too much, songbird.” He closes his eyes when he hears the sound of a chair being dragged closer and feels Jaskier settle behind him.

“And you don’t talk nearly enough!” Jaskier, for all of his shouting, is gentle when he brushes the knots out of Geralt’s hair; the rumble in Geralt’s chest is frighteningly close to a purr. “What else have you been keeping to yourself? Anything you’d like to share? Have you taken to writing poetry? Perhaps embroidery?”

Between the fire and Jaskier’s soothing rambling, he’s closer to dozing than he’d care to admit and it’s bringing strange thoughts to the surface. It’d be nice to have one of Jaskier’s handkerchiefs, to be able to carry a comfort on those hunts when he makes the bard stay back in the tavern, a token to return to someone who’s waiting for him. Not one of the lace ones though. One of the plainer ones that won’t be missed if he gets basilisk blood on it.

Thoughts like those are the main reason he doesn’t talk nearly as much as Jaskier would like him to.

“Geralt, are you listening?” He grunts, opening his eyes just a crack to look up at Jaskier. “You look like a spoiled cat. You were almost smiling in that daydream of yours. Reliving your shaming of my mortal enemy?” Jaskier sighs, almost dreamily. “Open up.”

It’s a testament to how tired he is that Geralt just obeys, opens his mouth to let a bit of cheese slip between his lips, or it shows just how much he trusts Jaskier. He closes his eyes, chews slowly, and feels the last knot in his hair come undone. “You really hate that man.”

“Without question. He’s always been terrible.” Jaskier sounds like he’s chewing, pauses for a moment. “He’s a plagiarist and a liar. He’s stolen quite a few ballads and passed them off as his own. He’s always looked down his nose at me.” He’s not brushing anymore; his hands are massaging Geralt’s neck now. “I didn’t say thank you before. You didn’t have to say any of it.”

“Then don’t.” He didn’t do it for a thank you. “I didn’t even know you were there to hear it.”

Jaskier’s hands stop then, resting on his shoulders. “I almost wish I didn’t. I don’t even know what to say.”

Geralt could let the subject drop. It’d be easy enough. Jaskier’s voice is quiet like he’s willing to let it go if Geralt is, like he’s afraid he was being serious before and he’s genuinely worried the witcher will somehow take the words back, unsay them and put something cruel in their place.

He turns, rising up on his knees, so he can better look him in the eye. “Then why say anything?” He cups Jaskier’s jaw, pulls him in close and kisses him then, soft and short. “You talk too much, songbird.”

They end up on the blanket in front of the fire, Jaskier perched on Geralt’s lap, his pants thrown aside and doublet torn open so Geralt can bite bruises into his throat. He’s rising and falling on Geralt’s cock, making little punched out noises every time Geralt thrusts up to meet him, soft moans and high pitched keens that sound like they’re being forced out of him. Jaskier’s hands are gripping his shoulders tight, would leave bruises if Geralt were any other man, but they won’t and he’ll have to savor the feeling while he can.

“Oh, fuck, Geralt, please-“ Jaskier’s begging, his cock leaking against both of their stomachs, untouched. “Please, love, I’m begging you-“

Geralt finally rolls them over, bears him to the floor, and gives him relief, wraps a hand around his cock and starts stroking; Jaskier’s nails are scratching at his back now, his legs around Geralt’s waist. It takes three strokes for him to come, with a cry that has a neighbor banging on the wall, and Geralt comes not a minute later, stilling his hips with a grunt.

He pulls out as gently as he can and lays himself down next to his songbird. Jaskier looks thoroughly debauched. His clothes are more than likely ruined and his cheeks are streaked with tears, but he has a tired smile on his face as he rolls over to curl up against Geralt. Geralt pulls him close and rests his cheek on Jaskier’s head.

“Are you finally speechless?” Geralt asks after a moment. When there’s no response, he pulls away just a bit to find Jaskier’s eyes closed and the bard breathing deeply.

He lays his head back down. He can’t exactly move with Jaskier half on top of him. The storm is still going; between the rain and Jaskier’s breathing, Geralt lets himself fall asleep next to the fire.

The handkerchief will have to wait until tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> The comments about the bath are definitely a self critique, not one of the fandom! I end up trying to put a tub in every Witcher fic I write.
> 
> I am turning the Apartment AU I wrote into a series; I'm just struggling with what part to write next.


End file.
